ROMAN VISHNIAC

Images you captured
with a hidden camera
are the purest poetry.
Without words, human language
exposed life, still
before Europe's storm of anti-Semitism
broke with war.

In shadows of courage you walked
from Warsaw to Carpathia, to bring
to light the Jewish man and his wife,
who searched for a piece of fruit,
or slice of stale bread to feed their children.

The reflection in eyes
unaware of your lens revealed
ruined hope: Boys, barely men,
used like horses to drag loads
across cobblestone on worn soles.
Those who did not have shoes
were unable to earn a wage,
considered useless, they wasted away
Terrified faces questioned fate
when emigration denied Jews
some way out.

You entered dank basements
to witness dark rooms swallow
childhood whole. Wrapped in
rag blankets, the only flowers
Sara saw, grew from her father's imagination.
Beside the bed she shared with six
others, he painted pink and blue
blossoms to warm the cold wall.

You believed you could save
the memory of your people
marching disguised as the enemy.
You assumed a Nazi uniform
the "Night of Broken Glass,"
to record the truth that no iron door
could withstand.

RETURN

L'Dor V'Dor

Summer of 1944

One By One

Deaths Elsewhere